Angst

It's been months since I've put pen to paper or opened my laptop.

I'm tired.  I'm depressed.  I wake up every day searching for a good day.  Every day I'm let down. The day gets utterly sucked away, quickly.  Every day.  Most days I want to curl up and hide. I'm beaten down. I'm losing.  The struggle is sucking my every last drop of life.

  My fucking kid is 13!

  My fucking kid is 13.

Gone is everything decent and sweet and innocent and good.  There is hate.  And screaming. There are girls.  And boys.  It's all snarling and spitting.  And fear.  One moment my kid is thirteen.  And the next?  A creepy monster bitch with hair of fire (because her head exploded).

I prepared myself for this.  Since the birth of my daughter 13 years ago I've been prepping myself for for this, this nasty puberty.  It feels so free to type the word puberty.  I can't say puberty or talk about puberty because I'm not allowed to use the "P" word in front of the 13 year old giiiirrlll. "OMG I'll die if you say that word" - whatever.   The hysterics aren't worth it.  I can write about it.  You should listen.

There is no advice I can give.  I cannot tell you what I do not know.  I can share a few thoughts and feelings that might help you decide whether or not to buy condoms later tonight.

I feel...hated.  It's not so much the "I hate you!" that rolls from her gaping blabber-hole on the daily - it's the look.  The "don't even look at me or I will burst into flames" look.  It slams the hate home.  Straight into my guts. 

I have been deserted.  My child is no longer trying to crawl her ass back in the womb.  I have wished for this day. I knew it would come.  I was excited.  I thought I was ready.  I clearly was not. We are separated.  I've been replaced with video games, computers, ipods, phones, and friiiieeeeends.  I'm lonely. 

There has not been a day, not one single day, that I haven't wanted to give up.  My parenting is tested - Every.  Single.  Day.  I am physically tired of arguing over every miniscule detail of every situation. I'm drained.  I am turning gray.   I am sad.

I am downtrodden.  I'm positive I'm a failure as a parent and that I'm raising the next infamous serial killer.   In my mind I'm sure that one morning when I ask if she wants eggs she'll reply by swallowing my head.  This girl with black eyeliner and an attitude.  

I'm completely uncomfortable.  It's gross.  Boys and giggly girlfriend drama sucked ass when I was a kid.  I have zero desire to do this shit again!  We average at least 1 awkward conversation per 12 hours. More on the weekends.  More on bad days.  More during pms. More on days that end with y.  

It's terrifying.  I'm afraid most days.  I'm afraid to say the wrong thing, look the wrong way, or ask the wrong question.  I am a complete bitch but this nasty, teeth gnashing witch scares the shit out of me.  Horrified that I will have to listen to all that whining.  It's scary.  I hate it.  

I'm way stupid.  I mean, that's how I feel.  That's how she makes me feel.  "Mom, you wouldn't understand" - whatever.  I know stuff.  I can't help with physics homeowrk but I can make a helluva meatloaf and I can stand on 1 foot for a long time.  I'm useful, damnit.

Watching my child's metamorphis from a little kid to to big asshole kid is not a good time.  I go into every day with hope.  I begin every day with understanding.  I also end every day screaming "shut up, I'm done".  It's okay.  When my day ends like that it means we talked.  I have that.  

PPB aka The Precious Princess - The Princess is a twice divorced, currently single, self-proclaimed member of the mentally hilarious. She has been referred to as living under a rock stocked with vodka and anger. Her 13 year old “Mini”, who is carbon copy of the Princess, is often the subject of blogs, and Facebook posts. In addition, she writes about dating, the dumbness of boys, life after 40, and shares stories from Bananaland which is both her past and current residence. She is the owner/sole admin for the Facebook page Precious Princess's Guide to Bananaland where she is famous for her rants and her blunt, honest, and sarcastic look at life. She blogs both extremely funny and all-the-feels posts at Princess Bananaland. She hates people, kids, and karaoke. She uses all the swears and makes up dirty words.

It's such a perfect day

A perfect day - anything goes - no boundaries

My day begins the usual way.  I drag my slovenly ass out of the bed (the alarm begins alarming at 5:30am and I wake, turn on the news, hit snooze until 6:00ish) and clomp to the potty where I spend 15-20 minutes performing my a.m. constitutional (aka - on the Facebook).  I jump (crawl) off the throne because I realize I wasted 20 minutes being a dick-around.  I gracefully complete my morning stretch and all the muscles in my body react - poorly.  I shower, ignoring the screaming pain from my parts.  I stand in the shower, letting the hot water attempt to relieve my aches and pains until I realize, once again, that I'm a dick-around.  I've been in the shower for 10 minutes and I haven't thought about soap.  I rush to half-ass wash my parts paying close attention to the stinky region (I have standards), wash, condition, and haul my soaking wet ass back to my room and lunge for the caffeine.  I sit, nude, with a towel wrapped around my head and ingest the much needed caffeine & take my much needed meds.  I take the towel off my head, wrap it (barely) around my ample business, and plop into my 12almost13 year old daughter's room for the first of many morning visits.  I turn off her nightlight, make sure the t.v. is off, and turn on her overhead light.  I do something horrible like rip a huge fart, squeeze her cheeks, or jab my finger into her closed eye while chanting "poke, poke, poke" to give her a little wake-up boost.  I'm a gem.  I flap back to my room to smear on the war-paint and do up the hair.  I head back to the kid's room where both of her alarms are blaring; one beeping and one playing music.  She's sound asleep.  She acknowledges me with "5 more minutes" and I pound the snooze on one of the screaming alarms.  I hit the kitchen to throw lunch together for the kid, and conjure up something for us to jam in our face-holes for the a.m. meal.  During this portion of my morning routine, the kid enters using the zombie walk, eyes half closed, arms out, and stomp-y.  She snags my breakfast offering, and heads to the family room to fuck with the cat.  I get dressed, get all my work shit gathered, and brush my teeth.  I check on the kid's progress  (still fucking with the cat), and help her out by screeching: "hurry up, brush your teeth, hurry up, shoes & socks, shoes & socks, brush your hair, is all your homework in your backpack, hurry up, brush your teeth, hurry up".  I know this helps because she is screaming back at me but moving her ass all the while.  I head for the car, and get myself settled with a few moments of quiet before the morning drive to school.  School for the kid is .4 miles from our house.  It takes approximately 20 minutes door to door to sit in the drop-off line.  The school is .4 miles from our house.  It takes the kid 7-10 minutes to walk.   The kid slams her whole body and her 40+lb backpack into the car, and the talking begins: "So this boy made me laugh, why is bacon red, I almost peed my pants yesterday, baaaaa, pewtiepie is so funny, we should get a dog, I want a dog, the boy's name was Freddy, what's for dinner" and so on...until she bolts from the car without so much as a goodbye.  

Every second of that shit is gonna make my perfect day, perfect.

I will do what I dream of doing almost every morning while I drive to work.  I will go and I will do - anything I want.  Because I can.

I head to the beach, alone.  To not think.  To relax, to listen.  I hop of out of my car with zero aches and pains.  I effortlessly set up my umbrella, chair, towel, and cooler in the perfect spot.  The spot where the water reaches my toes, the breeze is consistent, and the view is breathtaking.  I yank off my beach cover-up, giving absolutely no fucks about what my fellow beach goers think about my fat rolls, pasty white skin, or the jiggly-ness that is me.  I lay in the sun with headphones in my ears, a book in my hand, and an amazon-sized, fruity umbrella drink that was just delivered to me.  Delivered.  I sit for hours.  I totally fry the fuck out of myself.  I am totally red.  hot.  

I see a couple of hobos while leaving the beach.  I give them each a $50 and a Fireball mini (because its my fucking day and I can)

I meet friends for food & drinks at a restaurant on the water in a nearby town.  I'm wearing the perfect dress to compliment my lobster complexion.  I have heels on my feet
(I can wear them without the usual searing pain).  I bounce into the restaurant.  We eat, have grown-up drinks, and we dance.  I dance.  For hours.  In heels.  With no pain.  I dance with wild abandon.  I forget how I think this isn’t cool; I let go.  I embrace my inner fool and I laugh - and laugh.   I'm not performing.  I am not "on".  I'm just me. I’m free.  I feel, ahem, giddy.  It feels good.  I feel good.  Friends.  

I come home and whip up dinner for the family.  The kid scarfs what I make.  We chat about the day - school, friends, homework, etc...  After dinner, we walk a couple of miles around the park. My feet don't hurt.  I'm not out of breath.  The kid showers without argument and she washes. She says thank you and tells me she loves me.   We eat chocolate and head to bed.

I slip into a magnificent, non-scratchy, nightie that makes me feel glorious.  I slide into freshly washed sheets, turn on a great show, and get ready to sleep without assistance from OTC sleep-aids.  As my eyes close, I feel hot breath on my neck.  He's come to hump me and he's my best friend in the entire world.  I forget my cottage cheese ass, my untidy pube-age, and the fact that my mouth tastes like a day old egg-salad sandwich.  I forget my wrinkles and my saggy milk bags and  I let go.  I have hot, dirty sex.  Sex that should make me blush but it's dark and I don't give a damn.  After, there is kissing, some hugs, and more kissing.  He watches me fall asleep, and then he leaves.  He texts me from the car, "I miss you already, talk to you in a few hours".  I read it, then sleep.  I'm smiling. Even though my vagina feels ripped in half when I wake, the rest of my parts made it out unscathed.

I smile because my day is not ending.  It has no boundaries.   

I smile and I begin again.  

PPB aka The Precious Princess - The Princess is a twice divorced, recently single, self-proclaimed member of the mentally hilarious. She has been referred to as living under a rock stocked with vodka and anger. Her 12 year old “Mini”, who is carbon copy of the Princess, is often the subject of blogs, and Facebook posts. In addition, she writes about dating, the dumbness of boys, life after 40, and shares stories from Bananaland which is both her past and current residence. She is the owner/sole admin for the Facebook page Precious Princess's Guide to Bananaland where she is famous for her rants and her blunt, honest, and sarcastic look at life. She blogs both extremely funny and all-the-feels posts at Princess Bananaland. She hates people, kids, and karaoke. She uses all the swears and makes up dirty words. Eventually when she’s done being sloth-like, she will write a book.  Until she changes her mind. Be afraid. 

Liquid Parenting Advice

I am the current keeper of a piece of parenting advice that I wish to hell somebody would have given me when I was with child.  Because I am awesome and this is important, I will share this bit of info with all the uninformed parents. 

Indulge.  Sip that wine.  Slam a beer and chase that beer with another beer. I was not a big drinker prior to having my one and only child. I was never told that it was okay imperative to consume a little nip here and there to calm the nerves while attempting to parent.  Subsequently, the first several years of my daughter’s life were alcohol free.  Insanity. That's what ensued.  Total insanity. The fact that we made it out of babyhood alive is a mystery.  I know damn well my obsessive-compulsive tendencies, my helicopter mom-ness, and my need to be in control of every moment would have been kept in check if someone had told me to shut hell up and pop a cold one. I was so worried what people would think if I was drinking, or god forbid, I got drunk.  The world would have ended. I would have been shunned by my peers.   I have since learned to embrace the joy of a cool buzz when my offspring has lost her damn mind. 

The word needs to be spread, folks – drink.  How else can we support each other through this madcap journey of rearing the snatch monkeys? 

It is rarely mentioned that soon after the bundle of joy is brought home, many new parents are hiding in the hall closet sipping whiskey from a brown paper bag like hobos. This closeted behavior must be made common knowledge so whiskey can be sipped in an appropriate place, everywhere.  People with zero kids, new parents, and those perfect television type parents will argue that this is not the case.  Parents would never hide from a screaming baby. Lies, all lies.  Yes, there are probably some parents out there who don’t down a shot of tequila after an especially fragrant thirty-seven-wipe diaper change.  That’s because they didn’t receive this nugget of sage parenting advice. 

It’s okay to have a drink when the day is long and there are too many kids.  It’s really okay.  In essence it’s fairly cool to do almost anything that assists with making it through one of the endless days that make parenting so special (<--------- insert sarcasm font).  If the kids are breathing, fed, and happy content, consider the day a success. 

For those days when the newborn is screeching for hours for reasons unknown, the toddler is tearing through the house naked, his poop-filled diaper swinging from his arm like a lasso, with the shit literally (literally) hitting the fan, and the tween is calmly ignoring the entire scene while foraging in the kitchen (and everywhere else) for food.  Those days are made for a glass of wine (or 2).  The simple act of ingesting some alcohol can keep a parent from ending up in the snow, rocking, wearing only underwear & cowboy boots.  It can keep them from burning down the house, or taking the train to run far, far away.  

The shit, it never ends.  Even before all of the above scenarios have been dealt with, the damn kids are on to the next disastrous event that will require yet another glass of the red.  Or white. 

Perfect parenting is total bullshit and it does not exist. There are no perfect parents.  There are no perfect children.  Parenting sometimes most times calls for a cocktail.  There will be parents who will not agree with this advice.  Fuck those parents. 

Drinking is bad, blah, blah, blah.  Everyone will be an alcoholic, blah, blah, blah.

Nervous breakdowns are bad.  Ignoring, screaming at, and shaming kids is bad.   Also, all that stuff is like work.  Parenting is hard.  Sit down and enjoy a nice tall glass of vodka. 

That’s stress free parenting right there, folks. Enjoy that shit.

*The above post was written in jest.  Really.  – Sorry – I have to say that shit because people are assholes. 

PPB aka The Precious Princess - The Princess is a twice divorced, recently single, self-proclaimed member of the mentally hilarious. She has been referred to as living under a rock stocked with vodka and anger. Her 12 year old “Mini”, who is carbon copy of the Princess, is often the subject of blogs, and Facebook posts. In addition, she writes about dating, the dumbness of boys, life after 40, and shares stories from Bananaland which is both her past and current residence. She is the owner/sole admin for the Facebook page Precious Princess's Guide to Bananaland where she is famous for her rants and her blunt, honest, and sarcastic look at life. She blogs both extremely funny and all-the-feels posts at Princess Bananaland. She hates people, kids, and karaoke. She uses all the swears and makes up dirty words. Eventually when she’s done being sloth-like, she will write a book.  Until she changes her mind. Be afraid. 

“Dance with the one what brung ya”

Post originally published on the Original Bunker Punks website because they rock and I am one.  A punk.  An old punk, but a punk. 

Growing up in the South you hear a lot of quaint sayings. One I have heard many times is, “Dance with the one what brung ya.” Proper English, no, but the meaning was well-defined. I am sure that originally it meant exactly what it states. You should dance with the one that brought you to the dance. But it has evolved to mean stay the course with the talent, process or system that got you here.”  (Definition taken from the Southern Writer’s Magazine)

There are numerous definitions and variations of this phrase but essentially they are all very similar.  I was married and almost 38 years old when I first heard this expression.  I didn’t know what it meant.  I had never heard it.  I had no idea that this simple phrase would define how I felt over the next several years.  

The first time I heard it, it was in jest.  A friend said it in regard to waiting outside the bathroom, which by the way should be some sort of law.  I’m always getting left or leaving someone in the bathroom.  I digress.  This silly hillbilly phrase intrigued me.  I needed to know more and I needed to use it.  I wasn’t sure how but I was damn sure going to work it into conversation as much as possible.  You can never overuse old southern sayings, can you?  You can, but I didn’t care.  I was using that shit.

It wasn’t until almost 2 years later when I was single that this silly little saying made a real impact.  I was always a flirty hooker even when I was married and I was married almost my whole life.  Things didn’t change much when I was single.  Flirty hookers are popular in the single community.

It’s my personality

It’s how I am.

I married; I’m not going to cheat

I’m single; I should be flirty

In the beginning stages of my dating frenzy, I was usually on the receiving end of this phrase.  I didn’t know how to date.  I didn’t know how to meet people.  I was married for 17 years.  I was under the assumption that I could just play my usual role of flirty hooker which in reality was, douchey asshole.  It was not attractive.  I never really had a date say anything about it but I noticed it.  I noticed that I was getting that reputation.  Not that I gave a flying unicorn shit what other people thought of me but I cared what I thought of me.  

I took a dating break and have recently returned to the scene with my new outlook and I’m trying hard not be that douchey asshole who needs to be told to “dance with the one what brung ya”.  It hit me hard this time around.  I figured out what this phrase meant to me.  I am really paying attention and now it’s me giving the speech.  My new and exciting take on the world of dating has made me realize just how important that old hillbilly saying is. How serious.  How important.  To me.  

Respect

For yourself

For others

It isn’t a difficult concept.  Whether you’re on a first date, out with a friend for the evening, 3 months into dating, or married for 15 years, “Dance with the one what brung ya”.  If you cannot respect the person you have chosen to share time with you shouldn’t spend time with them.

That person, regardless of the relationship, should be your one and only focus.  If you are never going to see them again or live the rest of your life with them; the time you spend with them should be spent respect them and making them feel like they are the only other person in the room.

PPB aka The Precious Princess - The Princess is a twice divorced, recently single, self-proclaimed member of the mentally hilarious. She has been referred to as living under a rock stocked with vodka and anger. Her 12 year old “Mini”, who is carbon copy of the Princess, is often the subject of blogs, and Facebook posts. In addition, she writes about dating, the dumbness of boys, life after 40, and shares stories from Bananaland which is both her past and current residence. She is the owner/sole admin for the Facebook page Precious Princess's Guide to Bananaland where she is famous for her rants and her blunt, honest, and sarcastic look at life. She blogs both extremely funny and all-the-feels posts at Princess Bananaland. She hates people, kids, and karaoke. She uses all the swears and makes up dirty words. Eventually when she’s done being sloth-like, she will write a book.  Until she changes her mind. Be afraid. 

Vacation Tips

So my favorite thing in the whole wide world is vacation.  This year I decided to share some of my learned vacation tips.  I'm cool like that.

18 kickass vacation lessons you need to be aware of:

1. It's best not to drink 4 beers prior to getting a massage.  The ass-clenching that occurs while trying not to subject your massage therapist to your stank beer farts negates the entire experience.
2. Remember to show your kids where all the bars in your hotel are located.  Let's be serious, we all know that's where you're going to be.  Might as well the show the kids up front. Honesty is the best policy.
3. Be prepared to be hit with snarfling laughter every single damn time the phrase "duty-free" is uttered. It doesn't matter how old your kids are.  "Duty-free" is ageless.  You will hear it eleventy-million times.  Be ready.
4. Rule#1: Don't fart in the rental.  Or the room, or on the plane, or anywhere really.  Vacation farts are nastier than at home farts.  So don't.
5. Try and remember not to refer to your kid's new crabhat, (that you paid $15.00 for) ball-tie thingies as "deez nuts" in the presence of other parents.  You will get the stink-eye.  Judgy bastards.
6. Make sure to point out the nutsacks on the wildlife to your children.   Do this because it's funny as hell.  Blame it on learning.  It's biology ya' know. Take lots of pictures.
7. Pay close attention to your body's poop signals while traveling in a foreign country.  Your pipes are used to preservatives and a daily dose of McDonald's.  Fresh fruits and meats will fuck up your pooper, hugetime.
8. Leave the men at home.  Cuz - DUH.  Love him on the daily but leave his ass at home to work when looking for true relaxation.
9. Teach all or 1 of your kids to order room service.  Designate that kid or all kids, as "CEO of In-Room Food", "Queens of the Food Court", or President of Room Service".   They'll dig it and you'll never be hungry.  It really is a win-win.
10. When flying, give your kid the window seat right from the get-go.  It seems like a shitty deal but it will save you from the entire side of your body becoming completely numb after said kid falls asleep using you as their in-flight pillow.
11. Pack every snack your kid (s) like.  Their very favorites.  Pack them all.  Bribery is totally worth a peaceful vacation.  "If you can drag your grandma's luggage to the next gate you'll get chocolate".   The magic snack trick is in your best interest. Promise.
12. Do not feel guilty about using the pool as a shower for your kids when on vacation.  It's water and it has chemicals.  You're on vacation for chrissakes.  Enjoy that shit.  No guilt.  Showered kids = dirty bathrooms.  
13. If you're on a vacation that involves going through U.S. Customs, you cannot claim your offspring as items purchased that are over the spending limit.  They can't be deemed vegetables, fruits, plants, or dairy either.   Your kid nor the customs agent think that shit is funny.  Humorless fucks. 
14. When your tween daughter is the person who notices and announces to the crowd that the resort's entertainment dude has a boner, just go with it.  Knocking over the table trying to jam your ass under the table is overly obvious and disruptive so just smile, wave, and laugh like the proud parent you are.  
15. If you're feeling lonely as you watch the couples hump each other in the pool, remember this: they'll soon be headed to their hotel room filled with wet socks (he left everywhere), bathing suits half-hung over the shower bar, flooding the bathroom floor (thanks, lady), and a trash filled with tampon wrappers and empty tequila bottles to begin their argument about where to have breakfast. 
16. Set up the "tv rules" with the others in your party immediately.  You may think this is a ridiculous rule but when to wake up to your bunkmate watching repeats of Maverick at 3 a.m., shit can get weird.  Or you could end up watching really crappy tv.  Both are bad.
17. Regardless of how nervous or unsure you are, try everything you have time for.  Skip a tourist place and hit alocal bar, shop in a place with no floors, listen to the natives, stop at a roadside produce stand and - eat all the food.  I'm really serious about the food.  Try as many local flavors as you can fit in your face and still swallow.  (Keeping #7 in mind, of course)
18. The hotel pool is not your personal piss place.    Kids are bathing in there.  Show a little respect and skip your happy ass to the building with the toilets, otherwise known as the bathroom.  If you think someone is pissing in the pool be sure to point and shout "Pool Pisser!" really loud. It's a good time.  

PPB aka The Precious Princess - The Princess is a twice divorced, recently single, self-proclaimed member of the mentally hilarious. She has been referred to as living under a rock stocked with vodka and anger. Her 12 year old “Mini”, who is carbon copy of the Princess, is often the subject of blogs, and Facebook posts. In addition, she writes about dating, the dumbness of boys, life after 40, and shares stories from Bananaland which is both her past and current residence. She is the owner/sole admin for the Facebook page Precious Princess's Guide to Bananaland where she is famous for her rants and her blunt, honest, and sarcastic look at life. She blogs both extremely funny and all-the-feels posts at Princess Bananaland. She hates people, kids, and karaoke. She uses all the swears and makes up dirty words. Eventually when she’s done being sloth-like, she will write a book.  Until she changes her mind. Be afraid. 

6 reasons being pregnant sucked ass

I hated being pregnant.  Everything about it irked the shit out of me. All of the “old hat” moms told me that pregnancy was great. They told me I would love the feeling of my baby growing inside me and that it would be the happiest time of my life.  Those bitches lied. I just barely lived through the side effects of being with child.  It totally sucked ass.  Here's 6 reasons why:

1. During pregnancy (and after) my face looked like a tomato turned inside out (complete with seeds) and ready to explode. The pregnancy glow that I’d heard everyone talk about – it didn’t happen. I never had any glow unless glowing like the rings off the planet mars counts. When I say I was red, I mean that shit.  My skin was bright red like a shiny new sports car and blotchy too. There wasn’t enough make-up to cover the disaster that erupted on my face. I just went with it and blamed it on the kid. Figured if I started blaming her for stuff right off the bat, she’d be used to it by the time she popped out.
2. My feet hurt. They didn’t hurt a little. They hurt like I was lifting boulders with them. From the very second they hit the floor, they hurt. They hurt all day while I worked, and all night while I was doing all-the-things to prep for my new bundle of snatch monkey. I was carrying a baby – in my belly. It was growing by the second in my hugely bloated stomach. Why in the hell did my feet hurt so badly? They were always swollen and I had, gulp, kankles. Fat, ouch-y feet and swollen ankles were not in my pregnancy plan.
3. Caffeine, the lack of. I was that mom who quit everything that was considered “bad” for my new bundle of joy during pregnancy. This meant I consumed no caffeine. For 10 damn months. No caffeine also meant that I was impatient, rude, bitchy, and fairly completely intolerable. It also meant I had a headache – every fucking day. My addiction to caffeine was real and the headaches were more real.
4. I had to hide all the time. I was hiding because I was told by my husband, my doctor, my friends, other mothers, the neighbors, and every other damn person I came in contact with that I shouldn’t do this or I shouldn’t do that.  Screw that.  I did whatever the hell I wanted.  I just hid whilst doing it.  Painting the kitchen, painting the nursery, resurfacing the kitchen cabinets, getting my hair and nails did, were all things that had to be done.  I was pregnant, not dying. Get the hell out of my way…pregnant bitch coming through! I was also hiding from the advice givers. If I heard one more uppity bitch tell me about the best "this" to buy, where to get the perfect "that", or what the best time to do something was - a motherfucker was going to get jackslapped. My hiding protected a slew of phony, know-it-all-ass-hats from being punched in the neck but it wasn’t my idea of a rocking good time.
5. I had no morning sickness. That may sound like a good thing but I’m here to say, it wasn’t.  No crackers, no soda water, no clinging to the toilet drenched in my own sweat each morning. No smells that made me want to squeeze my nose-holes with a clothespin or a giant set of needle-nosed pliers. I got none of it. No morning sickness meant that I could eat everything that would fit through the giant opening in my face. I gained 90lbs. That's right - 90.  A little dab of morning sickness could have cut that number in half.  Damn pregnancy.
6. The peeing. I would be remiss if I failed to mention the excessive amount of urine that escaped my bladder on the daily. The peeing interrupted work, bedtime, television time, dinner time, sexy time (have you ever tried to be sexy while crossing your legs and doing Kegels simultaneously?) and just time in general. The walks from my office to the bathroom down the hall took up the better part of my 9 hour work day.  I never slept because every time I tried, I had to pee. Even when I didn’t have to pee, I felt like I had to pee. It wasn’t the –regular old I have to pee- feeling. It was the- I have to get up right this very second and haul my bloated pregnant ass to the bathroom before I have urine streaming down my leg-feeling.  And yes, it happened.  The peeing down my leg.  It happened so many times I can't even lie about it.

Before I wrap up this ever pleasant post, I would like to add that there actually were two (just two) things I enjoyed about being preggers - the shopping for all the much needed, super cute baby stuff and mostly the absence of my monthly uterus explosion.  Oh, and that snatch monkey that shot out of my vagina at the end of 10 months; she’s okay too.

One last thing: for those of you wondering why the fuck I didn't mention the lack of alcohol?  I didn't drink then.  I mean like once a year, I had a cocktail or 2.  I didn't have kids yet, assholes.  That's when the drinking started. Duh.

Cheers to you enjoying your pregnancy.

PPB aka The Precious Princess - The Princess is a twice divorced, recently dumped, recently unemployed, self-proclaimed member of the mentally hilarious. She has been referred to as living under a rock stocked with vodka and anger. Her 12 year old “Mini”, who is carbon copy of the Princess, is often the subject of blogs, and Facebook posts. In addition, she writes about dating, the dumbness of boys, life after 40, and shares stories from Bananaland which is both her past and current residence. She is the owner/sole admin for the Facebook page Precious Princess's Guide to Bananaland where she is famous for her rants and her blunt, honest, and sarcastic look at life. She blogs both extremely funny and all-the-feels posts at Princess Bananaland. She hates people, kids, and karaoke. She uses all the swears and makes up dirty words. Eventually when she’s done being sloth-like, she will write a book.  Until she changes her mind. Be afraid. 

My Perfect Mother's Day Dream

I know everybody has their own dream about the "Perfect Mother's Day.  I have mine too.  It's awesome.  It would have to go down a little bit like this:

1.  My mother would not get drunk, hug me, cry and tell say "this is the best Mother's Day ever".  Mostly, our Mother's Day celebrations suck.  Really.  They do.  It could be because we're there, but I doubt it.  I'm awesome.  Maybe it's her.
2.  My little sister would NOT send my mother the most bestest, most expensivest gift ever because she can and make me look like a jackwagon.  Which I am, but I don't need to be reminded.  Just cause' she lives far away doesn't mean she can upstage me all the time.  Right?
3.  The Mini would refrain from watching "Pokemon" for the ENTIRE day.  Or SpongeBob or any other tv show I deem stupid or loud.  Because in all honesty?  These shows give me cramps. 
4.  I would not receive yet another "Mom" charm for a non-existent chain.  Like really, I haven't owned a chain since I was in High School and I have like 6 of these charms and I can't even sell them or pawn them or anything. Maybe I  can make a charm bracelet?  Maybe?
5.  There would be no yelling, hitting, crying or whining.  From everyone else.  I would be exempt from this rule.  (It's MY dream, fuck off)
6.  I would get to pick what we do on Mother's Day.  HUGE.  I've never done it. NE-VER. My Mother ALWAYS gets to pick.  ALWAYS.  And, there would be no damn day trips to the Springs cause I can't stand the Springs and all the yucky wildlife and the ice cold water that freezes my vag to the point of soreness.  A frozen vag?  No good.  None whatsoever.
7.  ALL parental decisions, punishments, issues and whatnot?  Handled by someone else - Grandma.  Or a neighbor.  Or a hobo.  Or anybody.  Just not me.  ONE day to not think?  I'm good at this dreaming shit.
8.  Mother's Day would be on Saturday.  Sunday holidays are bullshit.  We deserve a Saturday.
9.  There would be a caramel vodka fountain and I would have the ONLY glass.
10. There would be pizza from Chicago delivered to my spot on the beach.  Yes, the beach. 
11. I would be allowed to watch my favorite shows all day and NOBODY would be allowed to interrupt.  NOBODY.  Unless, of course, I summonsed them because I needed something.  Cause' that would be totally different.  Totally.
12.  There would be clean floors everywhere.  There wouldn't be any itty bitty pieces of paper, lint, brownie, rabbit turds, chocolate candy, sandwich crumbs, pieces of ramen noodles (OMG, those piss me off, fucking ramen) or any other pieces of ANYTHING.  ANYWHERE. 
13.  I would NOT walk into any room for the entire day and have to say "what the fuck happened in here"? (It's MY dream, stop it)
14.  There would be cake.  With ice cream.  Because I like it.  That's why.
15.  A full body massage and plenty of back scratching throughout the day.
16.  And there would a magical fairy godmother who would come at the end of the day and blink her eyes or wriggle her nose or do whatever dealio is fashionable these days and make everything all perfectly clean.  I'd rather not have to clean up all the shit from super duper Perfect Mother's Day Dream.  Cause that would suck.  A lot.

I'll settle for this.  Really.

PPB aka The Precious Princess - The Princess is a twice divorced, recently dumped, recently unemployed, self-proclaimed member of the mentally hilarious. She has been referred to as living under a rock stocked with vodka and anger. Her 12 year old “Mini”, who is carbon copy of the Princess, is often the subject of blogs, and Facebook posts. In addition, she writes about dating, the dumbness of boys, life after 40, and shares stories from Bananaland which is both her past and current residence. She is the owner/sole admin for the Facebook page Precious Princess's Guide to Bananaland where she is famous for her rants and her blunt, honest, and sarcastic look at life. She blogs both extremely funny and all-the-feels posts at Princess Bananaland. She hates people, kids, and karaoke. She uses all the swears and makes up dirty words. Eventually when she’s done being sloth-like, she will write a book. Be afraid.